


Cygnus

by HumanError



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (not John or Sherlock), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Caring Sherlock, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Poor John, Suicide Attempt, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-13 01:22:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7956643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumanError/pseuds/HumanError
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My mum used to tell me all about the constellations when I was younger. The stories she told were of magnificent creatures that were lost to the heavens, only to be remembered at night time. Aquila was always my favourite."</p>
<p>John has to learn to cope with the loss of his mother. Sherlock will be with him every step of the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cygnus

John Watson was the epitome of the perfect child in his dad’s eyes. Always doing what was asked of him, never answering back. Unlike Harry, John wasn’t the type of teenager to spend his nights at parties in the houses of strangers he’d only met the night before. John wasn’t the type of teenager to drink the night away until the amount of alcohol consumed led to a trip to the hospital for his stomach to be pumped. John wasn’t that type of child until one day, he was.

***

“Stop this, John. Stop this right now or _so help me.”_   Mr Watson sits at the kitchen table, head in his hands and fist clenching the fair hair that is slowly becoming speckled with flecks of grey, just another tell-tale sign of the stress that has entailed since his wife died. Weary lines have begun to make themselves present on the man’s forehead, giving him the appearance of a man far beyond the years of the 45 he already has. Down at the other end of the table John is on his feet staring at the shattered glass remains of the cup that had previously held his water. Shards are scattered over the linoleum, glistening from the evening sun that shines through the window. “Just give me a break.”

“Give you a break?” John averts his attention from the floor to his father, and for the briefest of moments he feels a small jab of sympathy for the man opposite him. He’s clearly not sleeping. His eyes tell of nights spent lying awake, contemplating the events that have occurred over the past three weeks. John knows that this is what his father has been doing because he is the mirror image of how John looks and feels. All too soon, however, the pang of guilt for partially causing his father to be like this relinquishes, and John is overcome with anger. The expression his father is giving him- pleading, desperation for all of this to _just stop_ \- causes another burst of irritability. He has no right to give him this look. “ _You_ are the one that caused this. Mum is dead because of _you_ and you want me to _give you a break?_ ” John scoffs before taking another glass from the table, this time filled with whisky, and pelts it against the door frame. The second shatter of the night happens which sends a spray of fragments into the air, some of them propelling back at John. He feels one particularly sharp piece scrape across the piece of skin just above his eyebrow and he feels the blood before he sees it. It obscures his vision. He doesn’t care.

“John-“ Mr Watson spurs upwards, ready to tend to his son, but John pushes him backwards which causes him to slam back into the corner of the table.

“Stay away from me.” John spits back, his voice vehement and laced with a venom for which he didn’t think he was capable of. “Just stay back.” John doesn’t look at his father, _can’t_ look at him, but he can feel the pitying look that permeates throughout the room.

“Just let me look at your face. _Please.”_

John can hear his father stepping closer to him, albeit tentatively. He doesn’t allow him any closer, however. In an instant John is through the kitchen doors and into the hallway, grabbing his coat. He can’t be in this house any longer.

***

John arrives at Sherlock’s house soon after he leaves his own. The pastel pinks and oranges of the late September evening are merging into a deep iridescent blue, and they form a coalescence of colours which John, on any other night, would take the time to appreciate. Not tonight.

He rings the doorbell and the door is wrenched open within a few seconds. Sherlock doesn’t need to ask what happens because somehow he just _knows_ , and he’s dragging John in through the threshold and into the living room, removing his coat as he goes before he gently presses his shoulders, encouraging him to sit on the sofa. John obliges. He doesn’t have a choice. The blood has seeped from his eyebrow and down across his cheek. His school shirt is splattered with drops of blood and his head stings so much. There is a throbbing that he can’t stop. He knows that it’s from the blood loss and he knows that he needs stitches but he doesn’t care right now.

Sherlock is suddenly there again. He doesn’t realise that he has left, but when he returns he has a cloth in his hand and he’s pressing it against John’s forehead to stem the bleeding. “It’ll need stitches.” Sherlock says, and his voice is calm, any sense of worry that he may have is disguised by the way his words fall gently from his lips. “I’ll call for an ambulance.”

As Sherlock is calling the ambulance John leans back against the sofa with his head resting on the cushion that smells so much of Sherlock that it manages to calm him down immediately. Christ, if he could just stay in this spot forever, with Sherlock by his side, John would be content. Music is coming from a stereo in the corner of the room and John immediately recognises it as a recording of one of Sherlock’s own compositions and it’s relaxing. It’s the most relaxed he has felt in weeks and he wants to stay in that moment. He wants to stay there on Sherlock’s sofa without a care in the world.

Sherlock returns and the gentle notes of the violin are replaced with Sherlock’s equally as attractive voice.  “Glass?” Sherlock asks, though he knows the answer. John doesn’t know why Sherlock asks but he never questions this out loud. Maybe it’s just because Sherlock needs the confirmation, or maybe it’s because he wants John to acknowledge what has actually happened. He can’t be sure but he doesn’t want to ask.

“Yes,” he says, his voice nonchalant. Sherlock’s hand has replaced his on the cloth and it’s now Sherlock who is in control. Sherlock has learned that it’s best if he does most of the talking in times like these, which is something he had to learn quickly in the past three weeks. John is not stable. He knows that.

“Are you inebriated?” John watches as Sherlock’s eyes meet his, a fusion of greens and blues and browns that somehow shouldn’t work and yet they do.

“I don’t know.” A loose curl falls over Sherlock’s face as he nods his head in response to John’s answer and he kneels down beside John so they are level with one another.

“How long ago did you have a drink?” His voice takes on an air of seriousness and John feels another pang of guilt, the second time this evening. It’s not fair on Sherlock.

“A couple of hours ago I suppose. I’m fine.” The sky is dark now and the street lights have turned on, illuminating the darkness of Sherlock’s living room. The orange light emits a glow that reaches Sherlock’s face, making every one of his features more prominent, more beautiful. He smiles, and Sherlock lifts a hand to his shoulder. The touch is delicate, just a brush of fingertips to the cotton of his shirt but an eruption of warmth ignites within him and he is _fine._ He keeps telling himself this over and over again. He knows it’s a lie.

***

The ambulance arrives within a few minutes and John is cleaned up. They put a couple of stitches in his head, not too many, and Sherlock stays by his side the whole time. Once the paramedics have left they go up to Sherlock’s bedroom, thankful that they don’t need to explain to Sherlock’s parents why an ambulance has turned up at their house, since they are away for the evening. John contemplates this for a moment. Even if they were here, he’s sure they would understand. Sherlock’s parents always have been the caring type.

“You’re more than welcome to stay the night,” Sherlock says, pacing over to the wardrobe and retrieving John’s blankets, arranging them on the left side of the double bed. John never once lets his attention falter and he watches Sherlock, catlike and elegant, move around his room in a way that manages to be mesmerising. “I’ll text your dad, let him know you’re here. Don’t look at me like that, John.” Sherlock glances round and sees the frown that John is giving him, and John knows that he’s doing the right thing but he hates it. His father deserves to be worried. For all John cares he deserves everything he gets. A part of him despises the fact that it’s like this, that he’s behaving in such a way, but the anger he feels towards that man eradicates any rational thoughts he may have previously had. He is angry, so, so angry and now he’s crying and there are arms wrapped round him, the same arms that have comforted him so many times, and he is consoling him, telling him that _it’s ok, John. It’s ok. Shh._

His head is in the crook of Sherlock’s neck and the scent of smoke and something that is so undeniably Sherlock fills his senses. John presses his nose in closer and inhales, just as Sherlock’s hand caresses the back of his head and pulls him nearer. They stay like that in silence for what could be no longer than a minute but it’s all John needs. All John needs to know that everything will be ok and even if it isn’t, he’ll have Sherlock by his side.

The crying subsides and Sherlock stands, making his way over to the light switch to turn it off. He returns to the bed, takes his shirt off and flings it to the pile of clothes in a heap on his floor. John does the same and Sherlock climbs into the other side of the bed, dragging the duvet up over them and snuggling down next to John. It’s never gone further than this but John thinks, even if it doesn’t end up going further, he’d be fine with that.

***

Sherlock never did manage to message John’s father.

***

Rays of sunlight break through the curtains of the bedroom the next morning, enrapturing the room and all of its contents in a halo of warmth and brightness. John rolls to the side and smiles at the sight of Sherlock, brunette hair wild atop his forehead and sticking out in all directions.

“Sleep well?” Sherlock asks as he opens his eyes and squints at the light. John shifts his position slightly so that he is blocking the beam of light that is in Sherlock’s direct line of vision so Sherlock can look at him. John nods.

“The best sleep I’ve had in weeks.” John doesn’t want to tell him that it’s only at Sherlock’s house that he can sleep. He finds it impossible to articulate how appreciative he is of Sherlock, how grateful he is that he has someone to be there for him, even if they don’t talk.

It’s a Saturday morning, exactly 23 days since Mum died. Every day that John wakes up the realisation that his mother will never see him again hits him like a punch to the stomach and he wants to throw up, wants to scream at the top of his lungs.  The pain is a constant unrelenting attack on his body and it makes him feel weak. He knows it shouldn’t- grief is something that he knows is overwhelming and agonising and horrible but he just _despises_ how weak he feels. Harry is mourning too and John should be there for her but he isn’t. Throughout his entire life he has tried to prioritise Harry over anyone, during the nights she’d lie awake in the hospital after another drunken evening, John would be the one by her side. When she and Clara separated John was Harry’s shoulder to cry on. Now, in the time that Harry needs him most, John can’t bring himself to see her. He can barely bring himself to stay in the house, let alone be with his family. John clears his throat. 

“We’re going out.” Sherlock states as he pulls on his plum coloured shirt, fingers making quick work of each button, the pale expanse of his chest becoming hidden by the purple fabric. John yawns as Sherlock flings his own shirt at him, and he too dresses.

“Where?”

Sherlock only smirks at John and takes his hand before grabbing his shoulders and gesturing him towards the door. “Don’t ask questions.”

Within an hour the two of them find themselves surrounded by the cover of trees in the forest behind Sherlock’s house. They follow a trail, one that John hasn’t been on before, and he feels relaxed as the rays of light seep through the gaps in the trees, creating shining patterns on the ground at his feet. Sherlock walks ahead slightly, occasionally plucking things from the ground before flinging them back down. The tell-tale signs of autumn are present on the trees: leaves turning from vivid green to vibrant oranges and yellows and reds, a grey squirrel scurrying about the floor looking for the perfect place to hide his food for the winter.

Eventually they come to an opening where there is a carved wagon wheel bench, obscured slightly by the overgrown hedges. Sherlock stops in his tracks, waits for John to catch up with him and entwines their fingers together, before leading him over to the bench and perching upon it.

“I used to come here a lot as a child,” Sherlock says, gazing at the leaves above them, basking in the warmth of the sun. John thinks he looks beautiful. “Exploring was something I always enjoyed- even managed to drag Mycroft along with me one time.” Sherlock chuckled and shook his head. “That was a long time ago.”

“I’ll bet,” John replies and joins in with the laughing. Their fingers squeeze together more tightly and he takes back what he thought the previous night. _This is the moment I could stay in forever,_ he thinks, watching as Sherlock tilts his head to the ground, reminiscing to himself. “How did you find this place?” John asks, curious, wanting to know more.

“My mother and I, we were walking Redbeard together.” Sherlock fiddles with a thread of cotton on his coat. “Redbeard was my dog- I couldn’t have been much older than six when we first got him. He was a silly thing, inquisitive and always getting himself into mischief. Anyway, I was walking him and he managed to pull out of his collar and ran into this opening. Thankfully we caught him before he could get any further but ever since that incident we walked him here. He loved it.” Sherlock smiles to himself as he remembers Redbeard, remembers all of the memories they shared together in this location.

“When I got old enough Mummy allowed me to walk him by myself. Of course, I always came here and there was always something new to discover. It’s a fascinating place. This is the first time I’ve come here since Redbeard died.”

John’s smile turns sympathetic. “It’s beautiful.” _A gorgeous, transcendent visual._ They remain quiet for minutes, listening to the chirping of birds as they build their nests. A cool breeze introduces itself, _though it’s not unwelcomed. It creates a perfect atmosphere._

“That’s a fly agaric mushroom,” Sherlock points out, noticing a large cluster of red topped mushrooms protruding from the damp earth, flecks of white speckled over the red. “ _Amanita muscaria_ is its Latin name. Highly toxic. Works as a hallucinogenic.” John doesn’t take his attention away as Sherlock stands and strides over, before kicking them. Over and over again. With a flick of his wrist he encourages John to walk to him and suddenly they’re both kicking and kicking and kicking. Destroying the _Amanita muscaria_ until they are no more. John doesn’t have to ask why to know the reason for Sherlock doing this. He hasn’t been here for two years.

By the time they have finished they are both covered in a fine sheen of perspiration. John is panting and Sherlock’s curls stick to his forehead, which he then separates by running his fingers through it. _Jesus Christ,_ John wants him.

And it’s as if they are both thinking the same thing because suddenly Sherlock’s hands are cupping his jaw and his mouth is pressed to John’s _and they are kissing.  Feverish, heated, emotional._ John doesn’t hesitate to intertwine Sherlock’s hair around his fingers and pull him closer, seeking the warmth of Sherlock’s body against his. He can feel Sherlock’s tongue trace his bottom lip, can feel the heat permeate throughout his mouth as their mouths open and the kisses become more desperate.

“I’ve wanted-“ Sherlock gasps, one hand gripping the back of John’s neck, the other slowly sidling along John’s back and making its way underneath his shirt. The unexpected touch of cold to warm makes John shudder and he deepens the kiss as he feels Sherlock’s hand exploring his stomach. “For so long, John.” Sherlock’s breath hitches.

They somehow manage to manoeuvre themselves into the centre of the forest opening, feeling the cool air nip their cheeks as they move. John’s fingers brush against Sherlock’s cheekbone, delicately tickling the skin which has a blush edging its way quickly upwards from his neck. They are on the ground, John with his back against the soil, laying in a bed of leaves. His pale skin contrasts with the shades of amber surrounding him, and with every slight movement the leaves crunch beneath him. Sherlock is on top of John with his knees either side of his hips, hands digging into the earth beside John’s ears. _This,_ John thinks as he closes his eyes, gasping as Sherlock’s lips graze against his throat, _is everything that I ever needed._

Their mouths meet again and John cannot help but smile when he feels Sherlock’s mouth pull up into a smirk. Sherlock collapses beside John on the dirt, laughing, panting. They remain silent, watching the clouds drift slowly against the blue, travelling to locations far, far away.

“Did we-“

“Yes.” Sherlock’s hand makes its way into John’s and he holds it, feeling his pulse thrum through his veins, a little beat against Sherlock’s fingertips. For a moment all that can be heard is the rustle of leaves as they blow across the opening and then, occasionally, silence as the breeze diminishes. John turns his head to the side and watches the way the sun catches on Sherlock, changing chestnut into auburn. Sherlock’s breathing has returned to a steady pace and John cannot help but see how content he is, looking up to the sky and just _grinning._

“You have made me the happiest I have been in weeks,” John’s voice breaks slightly on the final syllables. Sherlock has been the constant in John’s life since his mother died and for that, John couldn’t be more appreciative.  It was impossible to say when Harry would be at home and when she was she was usually reluctant to speak to either him or his father. And John’s dad. Well, if those two weren’t caught in a shouting match John would be trying his absolute best to ignore him.

Sherlock squeezes his hand more tightly around John’s and lifts it up, pressing the back of it to his lips. “You’re going to get through this.” Sherlock says, a determination to his voice that makes John believe what he is saying. “I know you will. I can’t imagine you’ll be wanting to stay with your dad too often so the offer is always open to stay at mine. My parents have no worries about you staying over whenever you need to. They too have your best interests at heart.”

Just as John is about to say his thanks he feels the vibration of Sherlock’s phone through their trousers, where their thighs are touching. Sherlock drags himself from the ground and helps John up with him before pulling it from his pocket.

“Hello?” He asks. John cannot make out what is being said, though he can hear the mumbled voice coming through the speaker. Sherlock frowns before passing the phone to John, not saying a word. John wonders why whoever it was couldn’t have phoned John on his mobile before he realises that he must have left it in Sherlock’s bedroom. The only other person who John knew to have Sherlock’s number was Harry. _Shit._

“Hello?” John asks in a way unlike Sherlock had done just ten seconds ago.

“John- Dad, I came home about twenty minutes ago and I couldn’t find him and-“ John’s eyebrows furrow as he tries to decipher what his sister is saying. She’s speaking so quickly and frantically that John finds it difficult to make out what she’s saying, or rather, shouting.

“Harry- listen to me. Harry!” His sister finally stops speaking. “You need to slow down. I can’t understand what you’re saying.”

“It’s Dad,” Harry tries again, this time at a much slower pace. Her voice is laced with a certain worry that makes John’s stomach drop. _Don’t. Just don’t._ “I thought you’d be home and you wasn’t. Dad’s usually up by now and he wasn’t in the kitchen, so I went to his room and I found him.” He feels the colour drain from his face. “He wasn’t moving, John. I tried to wake him but I couldn’t.” She bursts into tears. “There was an empty pill bottle beside his bed. I phoned the ambulance and they’ve taken him. We need to get to the hospital now.”

John can’t trust his voice. He doesn’t want this to be true. He can’t have two dead parents. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he says, and hangs up. Sherlock is already registering John’s face, the way his lips are pulled into a tight line, the way he moves his fingers into a clenched fist. He can see the way he is clamping his teeth together, trying to suppress any emotion whatsoever. Sherlock doesn’t need to ask what’s happened. He knows.

“We’ll get one of Mycroft’s cars to take us.”

John nods his head and hands his phone back to Sherlock and they walk back to Sherlock’s house in silence.

They arrive at the hospital soon after their car arrives and immediately John is pushing through the doors into the entrance. Harry is standing off to the side of the entrance, the signs of crying evident by her smudged mascara. She tried to make herself more presentable before John arrived. Sherlock trails behind John ever so slightly, leaving him to go straight to Harry without intruding on the two of them.

“Where have they taken him?” John asks her, straight to the point. He doesn’t try to console her.

“I don’t know. I was waiting until you got here before asking anyone anything.” She looks around nervously before making eye contact with Sherlock. John is unaware of the questioning look in her eyes, the question of _is John ok?_ on the tip of her tongue. He doesn’t see Sherlock’s response, shaking his head.

“Ok. Fucking hell.” John strides over to the front desk and grabs the attention of the lady behind the glass. “A man has just been admitted by the name of Frank Watson. An OD. Could you tell me where he is please?”

The lady manages to point him in the right direction but he doesn’t wait for Sherlock or Harry to follow, though the sound of their footsteps suggests that they are trying to catch up to him. They come to a ward where John is forced to stop and request entry, which he is permitted. A nurse explains Mr Watson’s condition, all of which John ignores.

“If you need me for anything just call for me,” she smiles amicably and it takes everything John has in him to force a smile in return.

“Of course.”

John is a little way ahead of Sherlock and Harry still, so it is entirely unexpected to the both of them when John rips the curtain aside to gain access to his father’s bed. He looks weak and pathetic hooked up to various pieces of equipment but his eyes light up at the sight of his son. When John steps closer, Mr Watson smiles faintly.

He doesn’t anticipate John grabbing the front of his gown and shouting at him. “How could you?” John hollers, shaking the man beneath him with every ounce of strength that he has. His dad tries to push his son away from him but the drugs render him useless and he cannot do anything but watch as the anger that he has only seen too often over the past three weeks consume John again. “You kill mum and try to top yourself off now? How could you?”

There are powerful hands gripping John’s shoulders and Sherlock’s voice suddenly fills John’s ears. “Get off!” He’s calling. “John, don’t make this any worse than it needs to be.” He struggles against the forcefulness of Sherlock’s hands on him and instead focuses on his father squirming beneath him. John’s grip is unrelenting and he shakes and shakes and shakes. Soon he registers the beeping machines surrounding him and there are another pair of hands, this time around his waist.

“John, leave him alone! He’s your Dad!” It’s Harry. Immediately John lets go and there are nurses surrounding the bed tending to his dad. Sherlock drags him away from the scene and into the corridor, not before he sees Harry looking at him, her face a picture of shock and anger.

“No.” John says, breathing heavily, voice stern. It cracks as John speaks. “Not anymore.”

***

“Anger is clouding your judgement John.” Sherlock says as they make their way down to the pond located at the front of the hospital, a plain feature that doesn’t do anything to distract families from the fact that their relatives are dying inside the building behind them, or the fact that their parents and brothers and sisters are ill and injured.

“Brilliant deduction there, well done.” John scoffs at Sherlock’s remark. He stands up and begins pacing around the bench. “So fucking brilliant. You’re right. I am, surprisingly, very angry right now.” Sherlock doesn’t say anything, just watches as John wanders around the bench, face contorting into expressions of anger, frustration, resentment. “How can Harry forgive him?”

John braces himself against the bench and breathes deeply, each exhale shaky as he tries to stop himself from crying like he did last night. A family walk out of the hospital together and it doesn’t take a genius to know that they have heard some bad news. What looks like a dad is hugging his two daughters, and a woman who must be in her late thirties stands to the side and lights a cigarette in the smoking zone. John hates it.

Sherlock is on his feet in an instant once he sees John looking at the family and he’s wrapping his arm around his waist, embracing John against his chest. John’s head fits just right underneath Sherlock’s chin and he clings to Sherlock’s shirt, head resting against his chest.

“Why-“ John breathes and wraps his arms around Sherlock, letting out a sob. “Why the fuck does he think he can do that after everything he’s done?”

Sherlock shrugs. “He is a selfish man, John. I presume he doesn’t want to accept responsibility for his actions, nor does he want to deal with the guilt of knowing that he hurt you and Harry. More so, he is an obnoxious arsehole who takes his children for granted.” Sherlock brushes his fingers along John’s jaw and tilts his head so that he is looking directly at him, before kissing him. John wants nothing more than to just get away from here, go back to Sherlock’s, something, _anything_ to distract him from what is going on right now.

“What the hell was that show in there?” John spins around at the sound of Harry’s voice and rubs his eyes. Sherlock remains behind him, one hand on his hip as he watches the encounter that is about to ensue. Harry steps forward, only about a foot away from John and slaps him hard across the face. His head snaps to the side with the force of the blow and Sherlock steps forwards, ready to intervene, but John’s hand pressing back against Sherlock’s hip warns him to not do anything.  “You deserved that,” Harry says, and John agrees.

“He’s a prick.”

“You attacked him.”

“He caused mum to fall down the stairs.” Harry inhales a sharp breath, an incredulous look on her face, and she steps backwards as she tries to comprehend what her little brother is saying to him.

“Why are you saying this?” John tries to not let the anger overwhelm him again, but is she _really_ saying this? After all they’ve been through in the past three weeks John finds it incredibly difficult to comprehend the fact that she doesn’t believe him. He feels Sherlock’s grip tighten again. He twitches his head to the side.

“I saw him, Harry. That night when you were out with your friends. Sherlock was round. They were arguing-“

“What were they arguing about?” Harry interrupted, shooting John with a harsh glare that told him that she was taking no shit whatsoever. She was angry, just as much as John was.

John paused. “John. _What_ were they arguing about?” John thought back to the evening of his mother’s death. He’d only just arrived home after returning from Sherlock’s house, Sherlock right behind him.

***

“You can take my bed tonight.” John said as he held the door for Sherlock to walk by him, before turning around and shutting it. He dropped his keys back into his pocket and faced Sherlock again. “Mum’s already set up the inflatable bed. You had it last time so I thought I’d have it this time.”

“Just listen to me, Frank!” John’s head snapped up towards the top of the stairs and he saw his mum standing there in her pyjamas, face red as she shouted at her husband. She hasn’t noticed that her son had arrived home, nor had she realised that Sherlock was watching this either. Her voice dropped. “Frank, we need to intervene. Harry can’t keep doing this.” Mrs Watson’s hand gripped the handrail at the top of the stairs as she was about to step down them, but before she could John’s father had gripped her shoulder and spun her around.

“She’s fine!” Mr Watson sputtered, coming into view at the top of the stairs. His eyebrows were drawn down in an angry glare and his knuckles were white from where he gripped his wife’s shoulder.

“No, Frank, she isn’t! What don’t you understand? She had to go to the hospital _again_ last week because she was drunk. And you keep letting her go out! And she’s out again tonight!” Mrs Watson clenched her jaw.

“She’s a teenager, what do you bloody expect?” His fingers pressed harder against Mrs Watson’s shoulder as she again attempted to turn around.

“Please get off me.” She asked in a tone that was undeniably scared. Immediately John recognised the panic in his mother’s voice as she couldn’t get Mr Watson to release his fingers from her, and she pushed at him slightly with the effort to warn him to back off.

“We are having this discussion now and you need to listen to me!” Mr Watson snapped. Mrs Watson flinched.

“Dad!” John called from the bottom of the staircase. John’s mother turned her head and saw her son, a plea in her eyes for him to help. “Let go of her. Now.” John began to move, one foot on the bottom step, then the next. However, just as he was about to make his way up to the next step, John heard the sharp intake of breath as the force of Mr Watson releasing his grip caused his mum to lose her balance.

Suddenly she was falling, tumbling. The crack of her head hitting the wall was undeniable as she fell, step after step after step. John’s legs gave way beneath him as his mother eventually reached the last few steps, taking him down with him, and then they were both laying in a heap at the foot of the stairs, blood pooling around from where his mum’s head had collided with a plug socket on the lower wall.

In an instant John felt Sherlock beside him, cupping his hands to the wound on his mother’s head. There was silence as the three of them stared at the woman on the ground, the woman lying in John’s lap as she bled. John knew that she was dead.

“Phone an ambulance. Phone an ambulance, for god’s sake!” John shook his head as he came to his senses and saw Sherlock’s hands soaked in crimson, saw him shouting up to his father to “phone an ambulance now or get out if you can’t be helpful!”

His arms began to ache as John held on to his mum’s lifeless body, watched as the colour drained from her face. “Sher-“ He couldn’t finish the name.

“John, don’t let go of her, ok? Just hold her.” Sherlock adjusted himself so he was kneeling and pressed his fingers against Mrs Watson’s neck, feeling for a pulse. When he removed his fingers there was a trace of his fingerprints against the alabaster skin. “Shit.” He muttered beneath his breath.

Above them, Mr Watson was on the phone. “A-ambulance please. 33 Belgrave Avenue…”

He said more. John didn’t listen.

That was the last time John saw his mum.

***

“You.” John replied, any hint of emotion erased from his voice. “They were arguing about you.”

Harry’s face adopted a distressed expression but she managed to pull herself together in an instant.

“Mum was annoyed that Dad had gone and allowed you to get pissed again. You wound up in the hospital _again_ , surprisingly. So whilst you were having the time of your life I was holding mum as she died. She didn’t want to listen to dad and he grabbed her, but once he let go she lost her balance and she fell. She fell and she wouldn’t stop-“ John felt the tears threaten to spill over once more. “I couldn’t find it in me to tell the police that dad had done it. Sherlock won’t say anything. I know that we need him, as much as I hate to fucking say it, but we do. But he can’t do everything that he did and then think it’s ok to leave us without any parents. It’s selfish. It’s cowardly. So, Harry, I’m _sorry_ if you feel I behaved in an ‘unjust manner’ but he deserves everything that he gets.”

John wiped a tear from his face and spun around, leaving Sherlock and Harry to stand face to face. Right now, he didn’t care about anything.

***

“Please help him,” Harry pleaded to Sherlock as she watched her brother storm away from the two of them. “Please.”

“I’m trying,” Sherlock responded, adjusting his head so that his eyes were no longer following John. He knew it was in John’s best interests to be alone for a bit, to calm down. Sherlock knew he wouldn’t go far. He furrowed his brow. “Though you can’t expect John to forgive your father.”

She pressed her hand to her forehead and let out a long sigh. “I don’t know what to do.”

“There’s nothing you can do except be there for John. Even if you decide not to be, I will. I can’t expect he’ll want to be seeing his father and it’s up to you if you want to, which I expect you will going by your reaction to John going in there. But don’t condemn John for not wanting to.”

When Harry didn’t respond, Sherlock took that as his cue to leave. “I’m going to see John.”

***

Sherlock found John ten minutes later sitting on a wooden bench which overlooked the carpark. He perched down beside John and began to rummage in his pocket.

“Cigarette?” Sherlock asked, offering the packet after he pulled one out for himself.

“We’re on the hospital grounds.” John responded, hand hovering above the packet.

“No one is here.”

“Fair point.” He plucked a cigarette from its casing and held it to his lips as Sherlock lit it with his lighter, before doing the same himself. Leaning back against the bench Sherlock took a drag of the cigarette before exhaling, the smoke forming grey halos around their heads. John followed.

“I’ve never liked hospitals.” Sherlock stated after a considerable amount of silence. John raised his eyebrows.

“Really?” Sherlock nodded.

“I’m more of a morgue type of person. Hospitals always make you ask questions: will he make it? Will she pull through? At least with morgues you know there’s no hope for the person.”

John laughed despite himself. Of course Sherlock would say that. “Maybe you should work in a morgue.”

“Oh, definitely not. There’s no fun in that. I think I’d rather like to be out there looking at the crime scenes.” They both pressed the cigarettes to their lips again. “John.”

“Hm?”

“You’re staying at my house again tonight.”

“Sherlock-“

“Harry’s not planning at staying at home tonight. She and Clara are on good terms again- it was inevitable that they were going to reconcile. This means that you’ll be at home by yourself and I _can’t_ let you stay there with all of the thoughts racing around your head at the moment, especially after the circumstances of today. My parents will have returned home by now and it’s good for you to be in an environment that is as normal as possible. Considering that aside from your own house, the place you spend the most time at is mine which means that this is the most normalcy that you are going to get. Plus, my mother is dreadfully worried about you.” Sherlock took one final drag from his cigarette and stubbed it out on the concrete.

***

Back at Sherlock’s house the two find themselves in Sherlock’s room watching a film. It’s some film that Sherlock can’t remember the name of but John seems to like it and at the moment Sherlock really doesn’t find it in anyone’s best interests to criticise it as they watch, so he remains silent. They’re both sitting on Sherlock’s bed, Sherlock on the left, John on the right. The laptop is placed on Sherlock’s lap and John is leaning against him as they both look at the screen. When it finishes Sherlock closes the laptop before shoving it to the side.

“You say there’s a sequel to this?” Sherlock asks, taking John’s hand in his own.

“Yep, two more. We’re watching them at some point.” John wraps his arm around Sherlock’s waist and rest his head on his shoulder. He finds it so relaxing just sitting here without the worry of having to make conversation, without the worry of someone asking him what’s wrong. It’s _comfortable._

Just then Sherlock’s bedroom door opens and in comes Mycroft, suited up as always with a smug grin on his face. He takes a moment to assess the room before noticing that his brother is sitting just that bit closer to John than usual and _oh, would you look at that, they’re holding hands._

“Apologies little brother…” a moment “and John…” He’s silent for a moment more. “Isn’t this cosy?”

“What do you want, Mycroft?”

“Mother has asked me to let you know that dinner is ready. We’re having roast.” And with that, Mycroft left.

“He took that well,” John points out as he stands up, dragging Sherlock up with him. He straightens Sherlock’s shirt with his hand and smiles. “Better than how my dad would have reacted.”

Sherlock frowns. “He’s fine with Harry being gay. Why wouldn’t he accept you being in a relationship with a male?”

John chuckles but it’s without humour. “It’s fake- that front he puts on. He puts it on very convincingly if I say so myself but it’s not real. He hates it. Always has, always will. He’s a dick, after all.” John raises his head and smiles. “Not to worry about him though. Let’s get dinner.”

Sherlock nods and leads the way down the stairs to the kitchen where the inviting smell of the roasted vegetables permeates the air. When Mrs Holmes sees John she welcomes him with a tight hug, squeezing him against her in a way that only mothers do. John smiles. “Evening, Mrs Holmes.”

Mrs Holmes tuts and holds John out at arm’s length. “John, how many times do I have to tell you? Call me Violet.” She hugs John once more before twisting round and going back to sink. “Please, help yourself to as much as you want. Steven should be down any minute. Ah, Mycroft darling, could you pass me that glass over. I’ll pour John some water.” As Mrs Holmes fretted about the kitchen getting John his drink, Sherlock and John sat down at the table before helping themselves to some vegetables. Sherlock’s dad arrived at the kitchen shortly after and soon they were all seated.

“Evening, John.” Mr Holmes says from across the table.

“How was uncle Rudi’s wedding?” Mycroft asks before John has a chance to respond to Sherlock’s dad.

“Sienna found out about the crossdressing.” Sherlock states, flicking a pea with his fork at Mycroft which hits him directly between the eyes. The elder brother rolls his eyes before turning back to his father. “Was it during the vows or the best man’s speech?” Sherlock looks between his parents. “The vows.”

“Let’s just say that no one should trust your cousins with the responsibility of projections. Ever.” Mr Holmes grimaces as he cuts up his potato before shoving it into his mouth and shaking his head. Mrs Holmes begins speaking.

“They were meant to project a series of photographs of Rudi and Sienna together but your cousins had other ideas. Suddenly the whole of the church had to bear witness to your uncle in woman’s lingerie and knee high boots. Needless to say, Sienna was mortified.”

John glanced at Sherlock, his face a picture of utter confusion. Sherlock, realising the look John was giving him, elaborated. “Our cousins are delinquents. Mischievous. Well, that’s what our aunt calls them. We’d call them idiotic. They’ve always disliked uncle Rudi- a justified dislike, I would say. He’s an idiot as well. Unfortunately for him he would class them as his favourite nephews and asked them to do the projections. It was never going to end well.”

“You’d be surprised,” Mycroft interjects, “but we’re probably the most normal of the Holmes bunch.”

“Though in the long run,” Sherlock continues, “they’re probably saving uncle Rudi some misery. She was sleeping with the neighbour. Anyone could see that.”

“Not everyone has the ability to deduce like you and your brother, Sherlock.” Mr Holmes says.

“Their loss.”

“How’s the food, John?” Mrs Holmes asks.

“Wonderful.” _Fucking delicious,_ John wants to say but he feels that it may be slightly inappropriate.

The rest of the dinner goes by quickly and soon enough every plate is empty. “We’re going out,” Sherlock says suddenly, bolting up and taking his and John’s plate to the sink. “Won’t be back until late.”

“I thought we could have a games night?” Mrs Holmes says and frowns, but then she looks at her son and looks at John and can’t help but give in. “Don’t get in to any trouble. John, I trust you will keep him in his place.”

“As ever.”

“What time will you be back?”

“Before midnight.”

***

They were back in the forest again, following that same trail as they had strolled along only that morning. The sky had transformed into an array of pinks and reds, all morphing together to create a painting of complete serenity. Dark clouds drifted along in the gentle breeze, constantly changing the patterns above them. Soon enough, the two of them were at the same opening where they had arrived earlier.

Sherlock gestured to the ground and laid down in the exact groove that John had, holding his hand out so that John could follow suit. “I’d sit here with Redbeard when I thought the world was getting too much. He didn’t mind. He’d curl up against my legs and usually fall asleep, that is until I woke him up after the sun had set and we’d walk home in the dark.”

“You’re a bit of a romantic, aren’t you?” John chuckled as he ran his fingers through the crispy leaves on the ground. He picked one up and twiddled it between his fingers.

“Don’t go letting on. I can’t have my reputation ruined.” The pastel background of the sky caused the trees to be silhouettes as they looked up through the opening of the forest. Above them, a bat comes into their field of vision. It’s gone in an instant.

The pinks turned into purples which turned into navy which turned in to black. Soon enough the forest was pitch black and the only thing that could be seen in the sky was the stars.

“That’s Aquila.” John pointed toward the sky and moved his finger from star to star, tracing the outline of the constellation of the bird. “It’s the Eagle, found along the celestial equator. My mum used to tell me all about the constellations when I was younger. Harry and I loved learning about them and she would come up with these stories about what each constellation represented. I now know they’re to do with Greek mythology but the stories she told were of magnificent creatures that were lost to the heavens, only to be remembered at night time. Aquila was always my favourite- mum’s favourite too. She said that her mum used to tell her the same stories.”

Sherlock rested his head against John’s arm and listened as he recited the knowledge he had of the constellations. It was the most talkative John had been in weeks.

“I didn’t even know that the earth revolved around the sun until a few weeks ago.” Sherlock smirked and followed John’s finger as it drew through the air.

“Altair, also known as The Flying One, lives up there with Aquila- it’s the 11th brightest star in the sky. And on either side of it is Alshain and Tarazed- Falcon and Plundering Falcon.

The second bird in the sky is Cygnus-“

“Swan.”

“Swan. She has a triangle of stars- Deneb, Altair and Vega. Mum told us how Cygnus was a deceptive constellation- her fears and anger were disguised by the beauty of Deneb, Altair and Vega. She hides her destructiveness- mum would always say she was much like a person. Whilst there was Delphinus and Equuleus and all of these other beautiful and magnificent constellations, you’d often get a constellation like Cygnus. I soon found out why she told us this story- she hides one of the most famous black holes that we know about: Cygnus X-1. The black hole represents our flaws and if we’re not careful we can be consumed by our less desirable traits, so we have to work extra hard to show our Deneb, Altair and Vega.

I’m not going to let mum’s death drag me back. I can’t. She never would have wanted that for me.”

John turned his head and kissed Sherlock. “I’m so thankful for you. More than you’ll ever know.”

_More than he’ll ever know._


End file.
